


Allopreening

by Semianonymity



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Gen, Grooming, Queerplatonic Relationships, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allopreening: the grooming of one bird by another, also called mutual grooming. Allopreening functionally helps maintain feather quality, and has the potential to reduce conflict, reinforce social bonds, and function as a reciprocal stress reducer.</p>
<p>In a world where everyone has wings, touching someone else's feathers is an incredibly intimate and personal gesture, with most adults experiencing it only with a long-term romantic partner. Which is why Sherlock's sudden desire to have Joan preen his wings is so confusing, because it's not like <i>that</i>. But dismissing the thought has yet to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allopreening

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock has rock dove wings, and Watson is a peregrine falcon. I think it's worth pointing out that rock doves--better known as common city pigeons--are incredibly strong, enduring fliers, and that many doves and pigeons look amazingly hawklike in flight. Why do they fly so well? Because they evolved to escape one of their major predators, the Peregrine Falcon, the world's fastest bird, which can reach speeds of over 200 miles per hour when diving for prey (the "hunting stoop.")
> 
> Written for a prompt from [lizzieraindrops](http://lizzieraindrops.tumblr.com/): "Prompts! ALL THE INTENSE PLATONIC BONDS. Joan and Sherlock, apocalypse AU. Or wings AU."

It was understood that nobody touched anyone's wings, except in the most intimate occasions. Sometimes it was unavoidable—crowded public transport, last-minute Christmas shopping—but never with your hands, or with bare skin. It was an invasion. A parent would preen the wings of their young child, maybe, and in the most serious romantic relationships, partners would preen each other.

The wings are the soul, the saying went. It was an extremely intimate thing to let someone touch.

Sherlock's feathers were still patchy in places, brittle and damaged where feathers grown during his addiction hadn't molted yet. They tended to be ruffled anyway, and the piebald patterning of his pigeon wings, irregular dark gray and white mixed together, only added to the general impression of lackluster care. That, and the bags under his eyes, the gaunt look when he went too long without eating.

He'd been doing better and better. Living with Joan—she'd mentioned that as he kept eating regularly, as his health improved, he'd probably molt, out of season but getting back onto a normal schedule. It had been odd, another reminder of her role in his life, of the closeness of their—odd sort of relationship. There were no rules for them, and Sherlock often ignored boundaries he simply didn't _care_ about, but—but there simply weren't rules for him and Watson. He'd looked.

Cohabitation, a certain degree of—of intimacy, he'd found himself thinking. Nothing sexual. It was, technically, professional; they were partners, worked together, sharing a house was simply—expedient, familiar. And Sherlock knew better than to assume, than to take Watson's continued presence in his life for granted.

He was, ever since Joan had brought up molting, increasingly troubled by the desire to have her preen her wings. She'd take his hand when he offered it, reach out to lay a hand on his arm when he needed it most, the slightly removed contact of friends, which was, in a way, what they were. They stood too close. He knew her touch was, in many ways, from training: professional, caring, a doctor's hand. Deliberate in this as she was with a scalpel. And he ached with the thought of her hands slipping into his feathers and laying them flat—or almost better, when the maddening itchiness of pinfeathers came with his molt, the soothing scrape of fingernails along feather shafts. The tips of her fingers brushing the thin membranes of skin, extremely sensitive—designed for flight, after all, designed to read the wind patterns and make minute adjustments, even if people could no longer fly.

Sherlock hated the _hesitation_ , but he couldn't do anything about it. He had to bite back the urge to half-spread his wings for her hands, puffing up his feathers, _needy_. Which he also hated—and his own hands were more than sufficient in the practical matters of preening, when he bothered, when he didn't have a more interesting thing (a case, a mystery) to focus on—and when they sat side-by-side on the couch, backless to allow the wings space to go down the back, he thought about her hands. When she brought him breakfast, or when he brought her coffee, when she made a clever, _brilliant_ breakthrough in a case, when she exercised the skills she had, often skills he lacked (empathy, care, the ability to say the right thing at the right time and _mean_ it) –he knew she was brilliant, amazing, and it left him tight and nervous because he would trust her hands on his wings, flesh and blood and nothing but, but even if they were his soul—

He'd trust her. He already had, trusted Joan to open him up and put him back together a less broken man.

Sherlock did not allow himself to think of her own wings, carefully taken care of, sleek and dark above, brilliantly barred, almost checkered, below. He picked out clothes for her, sometimes just mentally, and thought only about the pattern, the dimensions—he'd noted everything that added up to hawk, her allulars, the businesslike sweep of her wings, so oddly similar to his own. Even in color. Peregrine falcons were unusual, almost unheard of in a doctor, and Sherlock knew she was magnificent. That, and only that. He thought about her hands tracing along his wings. Only that.

“Is something bothering you?” Watson asked one day, careful. She wasn't too close, not crowding him—he had avenues of escape.

“Yes,” Sherlock said tightly. Nothing else: he pressed his lips together, scowling, and was in a foul mood the rest of the afternoon. Watson let him stomp around, unless he tried to turn his temper on her. By nine o'clock he was only angry at himself, sulking and—

“I'm going to go get something to eat,” Watson told him. “You should, too,” she added, her voice a little tart, also _understanding_. “Starving yourself never helps your mood. If you want to join me, I'm—”

“I'll cook for us,” Sherlock found himself declaring, the words tumbling from his mouth, awful restlessness in his limbs. It was, of course, a question, even if he couldn't phrase it that way.

“Alright,” Watson said, acquiescing, and it calmed him down—relief—and also made the tension worse, because that meant she was _there_ , he'd come to some sort of decision, half impulse, and he'd have to go through with it now, or let it be. Watson's patience as he helped her out of the coat she'd just put on, jumpy and unable to meet her level gaze for too long, was a balm: the potential for redemption even when he'd fucked everything up in a dozen different, inventive ways. Her patience, not infinite—far from it, and endless forgiveness would have brought them both down, killed them. But very kind, always. She'd taught him to do better, to admit to mistakes, to be worth forgiving.

Sherlock, of course, still took liberties.

He scrambled eggs because it was one of the few things he could cook, then put together a salad and toasted bread while Joan took over the eggs, because he'd turned the heat up too high again—impatient—and they were burning. It was a meal for her, the sort he'd gotten more used to preparing, reasonably healthy and balanced and he did feel better, these days.

They ate in near-silence, and Joan had the carefully neutral expression that said she was waiting for him, whatever he needed to do, and Sherlock put aside his fork before he'd eaten much, then picked it up again to pull through his fingers, restless and on edge.

“Sherlock,” Joan began, and he shook his head.

“My—my apologies, Watson. I've been in a mood, I know, I—”

His voice was too tight, he knew his body language was putting off enough hesitance for Joan to pick up on, as sharp as she was, as well as she knew him. His wings were tight, feathers slicked down, hunched up high with tensed muscles in his back. They ached, as they often did—because of stress, or because he'd contorted himself into a position not quite comfortable but conducive to thought. He wanted her hands soothing the tension away, and of course he was the sort to take and take and _take_.

“I was wondering if you would be willing to—help with my wings,” he said finally, after too long a silence, pulling at him, and he was unable to meet her gaze. “I find myself...” He didn't need someone, not really. It wasn't a medical issue. “It would—it would be very much appreciated,” he said, instead. “I've come to truly appreciate your presence in my life, Watson, and I trust you to. To help with my wings. If you're willing, of course, I—I'm not asking to touch _yours_ , there's no need for reciprocity, I'm not looking to take liberties. I understand that there's no reason for you to allow such intimacies.” He swallowed, then continued. “It's a strange situation, true, I know, that I have no romantic desire, but I...”

His voice broke, and Sherlock made himself finish. He wouldn't have been able to bear the shakiness of his speech, if it was anyone but Joan across from him.

“I have come to see our partnership as the most important facet of my emotional life. Outside of any tawdry desire for sex, or anything _more_ than what you've already given me. I've never before wanted anyone so close to my wings, but I have great admiration for everything you are, Watson, and if you're amenable to the idea then—”

“Yes,” Joan said, her own voice just barely shaking, and Sherlock bit back a harsh breath verging too close to a sob. He couldn't help but let his wings fall, half open, a release of stress and an invitation so bone-deep that he couldn't voice it, and couldn't hold it back.

“At your convenience, then—”

“May I?” Joan said, standing, and Sherlock could only nod as she walked behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck and his feathers raising—vulnerable, exposed, trusting her, waiting. But her hand went first to his shoulder—he jumped anyway—before sliding over to his spine, then down to the base of his wings, her other hand coming up, pressing gently where the wing met his back.

Her hands slid into his feathers and it was so strange, so strange and the last person to do this had been Moriarty. Before that, his mother. He shuddered, and she almost withdrew, Sherlock shaking his head instinctively, throat caught, because that was the last thing he wanted.

“It's natural to crave intimacy,” Joan said, voice quiet, as her fingers moved deftly over feathers, shaping them, ordering them, basic hygiene that Sherlock had done for himself, of course, it was necessary. This was nothing like that, his hands were clenched on his knees, and he was agonizingly aware of the movements of her hands.

“I never have,” Sherlock said, promptly—as promptly as he could, his tone off, when he felt like he was being mended. Like the past months, solidified into the slide of her hands through slick feathers, achingly gentle—he wondered what her face looked like—and then even gentler when she found a patch of feathers malformed by malnutrition or drugs or both. The vanes didn't hook together right, split and brittle, but she gave them the same exacting care.

“Sherlock,” Joan said, admonishing. He didn't know how much disappointment he was hearing, how much he was inserting into his interpretation. “When you asked me to preen you—”

“I've never—it's been a long time since I've had this degree of trust in anyone,” Sherlock said. “Any desire, I've been more than capable of seeing to my physical needs—or at times, simply not interested in doing so,” he added, pained to admit it. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about your hands. Just—just like this. Watson, you make me _better_.”

“It's unusual,” Joan said, and Sherlock figured that at least he'd have this. This moment, the touch of her fingers along the most sensitive, most fragile part of his body. And trusting her to take care of him. Trusting her with all of him, and her accepting. That was all he needed.

“I'm an unusual person,” Sherlock said, unable to make it sound as proud as it might be.

“I think I understand,” Joan said, slowly. “I'm taking you at your word that there's no sexual component to this, Sherlock.” A touch of warning in her voice that made Sherlock go tense until her fingers pushed into the tight muscle, until his wings went limp with a sigh that pushed through his whole body, wings falling to either side of him, a long loose line down to the floor. “I'm probably supposed to watch out for our relationship becoming a substitute for other bonds, a—crutch.”

Sherlock stayed silent, unable to bring himself to speak.

“That was what I was supposed to do when I was supposed to leave,” she said with a little huff of laughter. “But I stayed, I moved in with you, left my career. Sherlock, I'd like you to preen my wings, too—it's crazy, maybe, but I understand.”

Sherlock bit his lip until the tears receded, until Joan was done. After everything was ordered, she ran her fingers through the down, the ruffle of his upper wing coverts, along the tips of his primaries, over and over. Sharing this with him. Not wanting it to end. Understanding how much it meant, whatever it was between them, not romantic and not professional. He'd asked for partnership. He still didn't know what he was asking.

-End-


End file.
